Thirty days.
The countdown has started, North America shivers under the shadow of a massive alien spacecraft, and humanity is hurtling toward an unknown future that lurks at the end of the timer. Somewhere, somehow, the heroes are making their plan...
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SOMEWHERE IN PENNSYLVANIA, USA
August 25, NOON
The bodies in the trees are easy to mistake for something else. Torn sheets, plastic bags, even ragdolls. The torchlight barely penetrates the murky woods at that height. From the vantage of the forest floor, all that can be seen are the white shapeless shirts or dresses they wear.
Bartlett's the first to realise what they really are. Or at least, he's the first to speak. But he's also the youngest and likely has the best eyes.
"Ohhh!" he moans. "Good God. There's people up there. Oh, Good God Almighty!"
"There is very little good about God these days if there ever has been," Rainer says from his spot at the head of our little column of misfits. He holds the flame of his scavenged tiki torch close to his face, and his shorn head seems to float in midair while his bland green prison-issued uniform is lost to the darkness. "Keep moving, everyone. We need to find shelter before we all fly like little birdies again. Don't want to join those fellas up there now, do we?"
Cocolo stretches his back regarding the morbid sight above us. His spine makes an audible crack. "You think that's what happened to them? They got stuck up there?" The old Cuban has stripped to the waist, and the flickering light glints off the sweat that slicks his emaciated body where each individual rib stands out.
"Nah," says Marcus, taking a similar pose next to him. The contrast of the muscular young man just makes the other look all the more decrepit. "They were strung up, Cocoa. Hung."
Bartlett and I join them, trying to make sense of the scene. Three bodies are directly overhead, but more blurs of white are farther off in every direction. It's hard to say how many, but if I had to guess, I'd go with ten. Give or take.
Without raising his eyes, Rainer says, "You're both wrong. They were killed. Exsanguinated. Then tied in place like Christmas ornaments. The ropes are around their chest, not around their necks." He runs a hand from armpit to armpit to demonstrate. "But I'll wager, it was this morning's little fun that got them caught up in the branches."
"How the hell you know all that?" Cocolo asks with a hint of insolence. It's the most I've ever heard anyone stand up to Rainer.
"I observe, friend. I look, and I observe."
"Damn. He's right." Bartlett stares up in a mixture of awe and horror. He absently scratches at the swastika tattoo emblazed on his bicep, a nervous habit he's fallen back on several times today.
I still couldn't make out much, although I probably should've gotten glasses years ago. But farsightedness never seemed important when my days were spent in a six-by-ten cell. So, I take their word for it.
